


Letters to Themyscira

by natasharomanoffaesthetic



Category: DCU, Wonder Woman - All Media Types
Genre: Bisexual Diana (Wonder Woman), Eventual Romance, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Short Stories, Slow Burn, its good yall
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-09
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2018-12-13 03:01:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11750685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natasharomanoffaesthetic/pseuds/natasharomanoffaesthetic
Summary: Bruce finds Diana's journal. He knows he shouldn't read it, but looks anyways. Its full of letters addressed to various people. Who are they? Why would Diana write letters without the intent on sending them? What are their stories?A collection of short stories from the wondrous life of Wonder Woman.





	1. Letters to Themyscira

Last night was certainly one to remember. Or at least, the mess in Wayne manor suggested so. Bruce Wayne couldn’t remember anything past the tang of the watermelon pucker of his umpteenth shot, and the evocative look of the blonde near the fireplace. He remembered feeling the music vibrate in his sternum and the smell of sweat and smoke. It was a mixture for disaster. 

Bruce woke up late with a headache and the blonde in his bed. As far as he knew, the celebration was a success. He forgot what exactly they were celebrating, but it didn’t really matter. Bruce was a party animal at heart, but damn, he was getting too old for this. What with being the Batman, leading the Justice League, and doing his regular business, Bruce had a lot on his plate. 

As he picked up a couch pillow that was on the floor, Bruce thought of the relaxing waves of his private beach estate. The soft sand under his toes, the sun kissing his back, and not a single joker out there. He made a mental note to tell Alfred to clear his schedule for next week; he was going on vacation. 

Bruce spent the next hour cleaning the kitchen. Sure, a maid could clean this up, but her liked to clean. It was calming and humbling. He set up his laptop on the counter. This was a familiar habit for him; to start working while he ate his high protein breakfast. No doubt all social medias will be covered in photos from last night. His phone already blew up with notifications from Barry’s snapchat. Though he did not like to admit it, the Justice League have almost become a sort of family to him. They sure knew how to have a good time, whether it be a high end house party like last night, or Mario Kart and pizza bagels. Rendezvous after battles have become a staple.

Emails and emails and emails. The music from last night still pounded in Bruce’s head. It was absolutely impossible to concentrate on anything. Needing to clear his head, he walked around aimlessly. Anything to get this headache to go away. 

That was when he stumbled on a purse. It was a nice leather one, big enough to sling over the shoulder and carry all the necessities women seem to need. He sighed, someone must have left it from the party. Bruce knew he shouldn’t, but he fumbled through it. He was looking for an identity, he convinced himself. Even though he knew he was invading someone’s privacy, he felt like a little kid looking through his mother’s purse for candy. 

A thrill went through Bruce when he discovered the book. Beside the usual lipstick, sunglasses, and mints, there was a little leather bound, hardcover book. The book looked like it had seen better days; it was definitely well used. It was a stark contrast from the sleekness of the purse. 

Again, Bruce knew that he shouldn’t look in the book. But, he formulated an excuse, a name was probably in there. What was the point of being the Batman, if not to help people? The poor women is probably looking for her purse right now. Yes, he thought, I’m helping her. Doing a good deed. 

He opened the first page of the book, and there sat a name. Shivers ran down his spine.

Diana Prince. 

Bruce’s brain yelled at him to put the book down. To walk the other way and pretend he never saw it. Call Diana, tell her her purse is here, and leave it at that. But his hands and eyes had other plans. Much was the case with Bruce on a regularly basis. Brain says no, body says yes. 

He flipped to the next page, excitement surging through him. "Letters to Themyscira" was written right under her name. He respected Diana, he really did. But she was so mysterious and closed off. She was extremely beautiful. Abnormally beautiful. Her chocolate eyes were enough to melt him. But there was a sadness behind them. Something that he has tried to pry out of her. But every time he tried to get her to open up, she closed herself off even more. The way Diana smiled, the smile that suggested that she was full of secrets she was just dying to tell you. He drove him crazy like Daisy did Gatsby. 

The picture from the war was a start, but that was pretty much all he knew about her. That she has been alive for a long, long time. Maybe she just wasn’t a talkative person. Bruce likes to pride himself of being the mysterious closed off Batman, but really, Wonder Women was more of a mystery than he was. 

Just glancing at the contents, Bruce could see that the journal was entirely hand written. There was still some empty pages in the back, but it was all filled up for the most part. Bruce felt the same electricity as he did when he got his hands on an early release of a new Harry Potter book. Except, this was more magical. 

He got his coffee, slipped off his shoes, and settles himself on the couch. He too a deep breath and opened the journal to the first entry. 

Suddenly, his phone dinged and startled him. It took a lot to startle Bruce, but apparently being caught in a guilty pleasure is one of them. 

The text was from the one and only Diana. Figures.  _ Going back to Paris today. Last night was fun! ;)  _

Bruce was about to reply when the little three dots of despair appeared. He waited with bated breathe for Diana to reveal that she had secret cameras in the manor, that she had been watching him this whole time, that she will banish him to the depths of hell for invading her space, so help her Zeus, she will smite him _.  _

Instead, she texted a simple message. _ Oh btw, I think I left my purse at your place. Nothing important is in it, so I don’t need it right now. Thanks! _

_ No prob. Text me when you land.  _ Bruce sighed when he heard the swoosh of the text. She didn’t know the journal was in the purse. And she is in France. Far away from Gotham. The giddiness crept back in. Bruce smirked and settled down to read the first entry.


	2. Home

Dear Antiope. 

Do they mourn me? At where we used to be? Does mother sit on the veranda, wishing she could see her daughter, see her sister? I know I do. I mourn me. 

I sit in my empty house, in an empty city, living an empty life. I look out the window to see the clouds, knowing it is not the same clouds you see. This is not a home to me. I go to bed at night, close my eyes, and feel love. I can almost smell my mother and feel her hand on my head, hear her voice humming softly. This is home. 

I run everyday, just like I used to. I am not running from anything. Instead, I run towards the nervana. I run to feel the familiar burn in my lungs, to hear the pound of my feet as they hit the ground, to see trees become blurry memories. Every time, I get to a point where I feel nothing. I close my eyes and I am home. I imagine the cobblestone paths, the winding staircases, the high archways, the terrain, the ocean, the sand, everything. I can almost hear the others telling me to slow down. I feel the ocean mist on my face, the misty ocean air in my hair. I can hear the slap of my sandals, the rustle of my skirt. And for a second, I am free again. Yes, I think to myself, this is home. 

And then I open my eyes, and see the clouds that are not the same. My heart is not racing because I did not run fast enough. The air is not cool because I am wearing fashionable outerwear. So I go back to my fashionable house, put on fashionable clothes, and go to my highly esteemed job. 

And when I am done doing my work, I go to my house which is not my home, and I do the meaningless thing humans do. Over the years, I have tried to fit in. And I find myself enjoying the meaningless rituals. I might go get a drink with a friend after work. I might watch my favorite television program. I might read a book about elves and kings. I might go to one of the many monuments and pay my respects to the fallen false god. To my fallen friend. 

But everyday, whether it be at work or home, I take out his watch. I look into the face of the antique as if staring at it will give me answers. I think of him. That was the happiest time of my life. And I know, deep down, that I will never be that happy again. The universe has put me in a tumult of misfortune. One that, no matter how hard I try, I will always be stuck in. There are times when I am instilled with false enjoyment, but that is quickly overshadowed by missing pieces. I had it all, and I lost it all. I reached the top of the mountain, and I've been falling off the dark side for years. 

But I am complacent in the fall. I've found comfort in it. So I don't try and fight it: I don't scream, I don't reach, I don't fly. Sometimes I think that I’ve already hit the ground. That my life is already gone. Sure, the moment I met him, my true purpose as the godkiller was revealed, and I had drive and motive. But when the plane went up in flames, I realized that there is no point to having a purpose to exist if all you will do in return is suffer. But, as you used to say, there is no glory in being a hero. All those who save must also sacrifice. 

So I look into the face of his watch, and mourn myself. I mourn the little girl that used to want to fight all the time. Life has killed her. 

But, and there is always a “but” in this world, I seem to be flying against all odds. Yes, it is hard to rise again from falling for so long, but my friends are helping me. For the first time, I feel the same camaraderie that I felt in that bar in London so long ago. I feel companionship in the people that are just like me. We are not exactly human, and we are here to serve a greater purpose. And for a brief second, I felt at home. The pure happiness that was completely untainted by the past. And it was beautiful. 

Oddly enough, it was after a funeral. I’ve been to many funeral over the years, watching one friend after another go. But this one was different. It looking like it was about to rain. The perfect weather to fit the sunshine the world had lost. We stood near the trees in the back, so as not to disturb this private event. It was not my place to be there, but it would have felt wrong if I went to the public funeral for Superman. 

The procession was quiet and emotional. Martha and Lois, the mother and girlfriend, were a bundle of tears. I pitied them. But Clark was a god man and a great fighter. He died protecting his loved ones. He died fulfilling his purpose, and that is the greatest thing anyone could ask for. He died an honourable death. Therefore, I did not understand why they were crying so much. The many friends I have seen die happy and of old age did not demand tears. I learned that life is temporary, and that we should feel happy for the memories they gave us.

But the I remembered how much I cried for Steve, and I mourned him heavily, but I moved on. He died honourably, and I respect and love all the more for it. So I sympathized with Martha and Lois, but I did not cry with them. 

I saw a figure standing up the road near the trees. A quick text from an unknown number told me to meet him at that very spot. Bruce Wayne had a way of being mysterious that made me laugh. The text said that we needed to discuss things. Of course I knew that he wanted to find the other metahumans. I also knew that he felt responsible for Clark’s death. After talking with Bruce about finding the others and of hope for the future, we walked back to his car. I will remember this walk for the rest of my life. 

“Well, it’s back to Gotham for me,” said Bruce. “Where are you headed?”

I hesitated before I answered. “Paris.”

“Are you going to keep hiding from the world? Or are you going to make peace with your past?”

“What do you know about my past?” I looked at the open field we were walking along. 

“You said you turned your back on mankind a hundred years ago. It just seems like something personal happened” Bruce tried to look innocent. He knew. And he knew that I knew that he knew.

“What do you want, Bruce?” I sighed. 

“I just want you to know that I am here to listen to your story, should you choose to tell it,” he said. If anyone else had said that to me, I would have dismissed it as someone just wanting to learn another secret. But the sincerity in his voice betrayed him. I could tell that my story, however much he knew about it, had become something personal to him. I was glad. Really glad, for the first time in as long as I could remember. To have someone truly care about you is special. 

I looked in his eyes and saw that he deeply cared for me, and that the short time we knew each other was just the beginning of a great friendship. And that is all I can ask for. A friend. 

But something inside me, be it habit or fear, told me to distance myself. Everyone around me dies, so I saw no point point in attaching myself to someone else. Yet, the magnetism to Bruce was so strong. We walked in silence the rest of the way. I took that time to let myself come to the decision to give into this relationship. I allowed myself come undone in the comfortable silence that I haven’t felt in a hundred years. It was a rare thing to find someone you could walk in silence with. 

We came to the parking lot and stopped. Bruce put a hand on my back. 

“Can I tempt you a drink? I think I saw a little dive in bar on the way here,” he asked smiled that half smile that made him look like a jerk, but was really just him attempting to be friendly. 

“I have a plane to catch, unfortunately,” I said. 

“Ah, right. Paris” he winked. “Can’t you just fly there? Or do you just like planes?”

“I detest planes,” I said, come flooding any emotion that my show on my face. 

“You are a puzzle, Diana,” he said as he started to walk towards his expensive car. I will take this friendship slow, I vowed to myself. Nothing to reveal to fast. 

“Oh, and by the way,” he said, turning around. “I sent you a little package. Enjoy.”

Enjoy is an understatement of how I felt when I opened the package at work. But the giddiness I felt on the plane was enough to make me realize that there might be more in life for me yet. I looked out the window and saw the clouds, and realized that they are the same clouds Bruce is seeing, the same ones the other metas are seeing. And I felt at home. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And?? What do you think? I am having a blast writing this!!!


	3. Dear Charlie

Dear Charlie.

Let me tell you about a bird. 

It was a small little thing, grey and brown and fragile. It fell out of the tree in my backyard. I did not know what to do. I can't touch it, or else it would think I'm it's mother. I can't just leave it to die either. But it's little chirps and it's puffed chest begged me to intervene.

I took a kitchen towel and used it as a barrier to pick it up. I put it in a little box in the shade with a little bowl of water. Perhaps that will keep it safe from the heat and predators. 

But what about his mother? I decided it was a “he” at that point. I did not think the mother had abandoned the little thing, and I didn't think she would like the box too much. So I looked at the little bird, who looked back at me with a happy and innocent face. I picked up the towel again, careful not to touch it. 

The little thing had taken a liking to me. It hopped a little trail that following me, even though I did not touch it. Yet, I had fallen in love with it too. Henry, as I decided to call him, seemed to want me to rescue it. He chirped out little songs that melted my heart. The noises were barely audible, but I still cherished them. 

But I decided against it. No matter how cute and vulnerable he was, Henry was a creature of nature, and was destined to thrive in the wild. Similar incidents happened back home on Themyscira. I would walk upon baby birds that failed to fly, and assisted them in anyway I could. Mother always told me to leave their fate for mother nature to decide, but I just couldn’t walk away. 

And such was the case with Henry. I made a makeshift shelter for him under a chair to shield him from the sun. I sprayed the grass with the hose so as to cool the ground for him. I checked periodically throughout the day to see if there was any predators. Every time I stepped outside, he would follow me everywhere. I had to distract him just so I could have a chance to run back inside. 

As the day progressed, I became more and more distracted from Henry. While I checked every half hour, I became wrapped up in the work I had to do for the day I noticed that a dove, presumably his mother, kept coming back.Henry would skip up to the dove and nestle in one of her feathers. The dove would peck at his wings and feed him. But as evening rolled around, my daily duties pushed Henry out of my mind. It was only when the sun started tp set that I remembered the poor fellow. 

I looked outside, and saw the silhouette of a dove on the fence. His mother had returned. A little thrill of joy went through me. It meant that Henry had been fed again, and that his mother had not abandoned him. The mother dove had disappeared for a couple hours, and I began to get worried. But now that she was back, I was so happy that he had someone to care for him again. 

“Henry,” I called out, looking for my little friend. “Henry where are you?”

I walked around the backyard, trying to find him. Every piece of bark on the ground looked like him. But I did not see the familiar little hops, or here the sweet songs. 

And then I saw a pile of feathers. My heart switched places with my stomache. The mother dove on the fence just looked at me. I took a deep breath, swallowed down the lump in my throat and went back inside. The dove’s eyes followed me all the way. At least Henry had known love. 

Charlie, I am sorry that I did not save you from the mother dove. I miss your songs. 

  
  
  
  


“Master Wayne, shall I cancel the dinner with Mrs. Walker tonight?” asked Alfred as he walked out of the elevator to the batcave. 

“No, no, of course not,” murmured Bruce. He sighed and rubbed his eyes. He had spent most of the day reading Diana’s journal. How could he have not known any of this about her? Looking back, her face is an open book. Especially when the smile doesn't quite reacher her eyes, he knows that there is pain behind them. Diana truly has an amazing story. He only wonders what he will do the next time he sees her. 

Needless to say, Bruce has been neglecting his duties. It was hard to concentrate on the ordinary nothingness when a woman’s secrets were at his beck and call. Who was Charlie? And why did Diana compare him to the baby bird? He had so many questions. 

He mused that Diana’s love of the little bird is reflective of her love of mankind. She sees mortals as vulnerable creatures that need her help to survive. She cannot touch them directly, but does all she can to scaffold them. The fact that it was a dove is perhaps a symbol of -

Bruce shook his head. He shouldn’t be analyzing his friend like this. This journal is a collection of real events, not some book in a pretentious university class. Still, he remembered her mentioning of their talk after Clark’s funeral. It was hard trying not to look for connections that may be relevant right now. 

Bruce sighed and put the journal on his night stand. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the overwhelming support for this fic! I'm having a blast writing. Feel free to contact me on my tumblr brucexwayne.tumblr.com! :)


	4. A Work Day in the Life Of

Dear Mother. 

You have always wanted the best for me. At least that I know of without a doubt. I can write to you now with certainty that I have made the very best life for myself. I went to the best school, live in the best city, and have the best job. And most of all, I do what I love. 

Officially, I am an antiques dealer. What that means is that I go to high end parties and convince the wealthy to donate historical items that were wrongfully taken from their homelands.  I then restore these items if need be, and display them in museums. It is my belief that objects hold importance and should be viewed by everyone. The truth of history should be made clear to all who seek it. 

Unofficially, I engage in what I call aggressive donations. That is how I am the best at my job; a donor never says no to me. And if they refuse to donate the antique, they will have the same fate as Cedric Von Beckett. 

It started at a gala for the one percent, much like the ones I still go to today. This particular stories was when I first started as an antique dealer in the ‘60’s. I was a big fan of the mod fashion style. I wore a long green Jean Patou piece that made head turn with the chicness. However the gala events looked the same. They all look the same; priceless artifacts and works of art on display in every direction, the sound of pretentious laughter and meaningless conversations about business and money, dainty hands grasping champagne glasses like their life depended on it. And at every event, it seems like their is a gold filter on everything. The marble staircases, the dresses, the air; all slightly gold. 

The soft flakes of the first snow glittered my hair when I stepped outside for just a second. I could just make out the shape of Brunelleschi’s dome in the cloudy night sky. The sound of the classical music was muffled through the glass doors. I took a deep breathe and a sip of my champagne. I was here for a reason. 

I heard him before I saw him. He walked up behind me and sighed loudly. The one and only Cedric Von Beckett leaned onto the balcony right beside me. 

“What a lovely night, yes?” he asked. 

“Just like one of the paintings inside,” I smiled, playing along.

“Oh, but nothing compares to your beauty.” Even his laugh sounded british. 

I took another sip of my champagne to mask my eyes rolling. There is always one man who thinks he can charm his way into my bed. Really, it was exhausting. “What brings you to Florence?”

“The same as you, dear,” he smirked, “a piece of the clock.”

“The Antikythera mechanism, you mean,” I said, trying to ease the sharpness of my tone. It annoyed me to know end when prospective donors did not care about the piece of history in their possession. “Yes it is truley is evidence of the advanced technology ancient Greece had. I would love to have a look at it.”

Ancient Greece. My speciality. Other dealers in the industry are often amazed at my knowledge of the culture. They think that I must have hit the jackpot to have a crazy professor who taught such raw material. Or at least, that’s what I told them. In actuality, I just want to be reminded of my past. I want to jump into the scenery and feel the same grass, to feel the same world untainted by technology and crime. I want to be innocent in an innocent world. 

“I do love to show it off,” said Beckett. “But I’d much rather look at you right now.”

“You do know that this is not a party for me. This is work.” I declared as I backed away from his hand that reached for my shoulder. 

“What’s the fun in working if you can’t have a little fun” he winked. 

“You know how it goes, Cedric” I said, warming up. The main purpose why I went to this party was to buy this specific piece. With it, we are that much closer to completing the Antikythera mechanism. 

“I am not quite set on an offer yet.” he replied, smirking. 

“Oh?” I countered, quirking an eyebrow. I know how to play the game. “Perhaps you just haven’t met the right dealer.”

“Or the right price,” he looked down at the long slit up my dress. And they say Amazons are primitive creatures. 

“Name your price” I said. 

“Dinner, you and me, tomorrow,” he said, thinking he was being sneaky, that I didn’t know his plan all along. 

“Just name the time and place,” I said over my shoulder. Best to leave the conversation now before my temper shows. I left him like that; in his glory of the capture. 

Men are like that, though. They think women are prizes to be won. Moreover, they think that we must offer our bodies to achieve any ends. I have seen it all before, and I will see it all again. I have learned through mistake that men are not to be trusted. 

The next evening, the dinner with Beckett went on without a catch. The cute little yellow pleated trapeze dress I wore with matching gloves and a little black dress, along with my half up bombshell hairdo would have made even Jane Fonda jealous. I made sure that I was still charming, but still uninteresting enough so that he would not want to take me home. It is a fine are to meet that place, but I have spent the past one hundred years perfecting it. But that was not the point of the dinner. I needed to land this deal. 

“So, the ‘clock’ as you like to call it,” I started, taking my time. “How much do you want for it. The museum is willing to be generous.”

“Oh, Diana,” said Beckett, leaning back in his chair with a smug look. “Surely you must know by now that I never had any intention of selling it. Why, it is one of the most talked about pieces in my possession. One might say it's my ‘claim to fame’ at parties. You must understand that I will never give it up.”

It was a couple moments before I could speak again. I carefully put my glass back on the table, and folded my hands. “I see. I do understand, Cedric. I have seen your type before.”

“Oh have you?” he smirked dangerously. “I’d sooner destroy the artifact than donate it.”

That was it. I lost my temper. “You selfish, utterly incompetent buffoon. You absolute pig. I’ll have that clock, mark my words.” I grabbed my clutch and stormed out of the restaurant. 

He followed me to the sidewalk and grabbed my arm. I stopped in my tracks, completely at a loss for words; I was so blinded with anger. He whispered into my neck. “Who do you think you are, sweetheart.” 

I grabbed onto his arm and flipped him over my shoulder. The breath was knocked out of his lungs as he hit the floor, hard. I brushed myself off and went on my merry way, making sure to dig my heel into his shoulder when I walked over him. 

I will have that artifact.

 

The estate of Beckett was beautiful. He was not noble of any means; new money was defined by a more modern taste. As was reflected in his estate. It was all black and white with hard edges. Yet, at a closer look, one could see that the walls were dirty, the hedges were dying, and everything had just the minute detail that off brand things do. If I did not do my research before hand, I would have guessed that he faked his British accent just for the status. Everything about Beckett was fake. It’s no wonder that statistics show that his tech business will fall through in a couple of years. 

Just for a moment, I second guessed myself. If Beckett was a fraud, was his piece of the Antikythera machine fake too? I did not want to believe this. I needed to see the piece with my own eyes. I can tell from just a glance whether or not it was fake. 

I took a deep breath and flew to the side of the house. Even though everything in the house was off brand, the security system was top of the line. It seems like Beckett spent all his money on shiny new technology instead of having good taste. 

Admittedly, it had been a while since I flew anywhere. I was comfortable in in my normal human life. It was easy to blend into my job and culture. It was easier to just step to the sidelines and let things fall where they may. 

But I needed this piece. Not only was it a huge factor of my job, but it also had personal reasons. I did not attempt to do anything that suggested I was anything other than a normal woman for the entire decade of the 50’s (but that is a whole other story), so I was scared to do this. 

Hopefully my black turtleneck will hide me in the shadows when I steal the Antikythera Piece. 

I scaled the walls and hopped onto the sealing. I unlatched the kitchen’s sunlight as quietly as I could. According to house’s schematics, the clock piece was on display in a hallway that connected the kitchen and living room. I cringed at the thought of someone putting such an important antique in a hallway of all places. 

I took out my lasso and gently lowered it all the way to the ground. No alarms went off, so I took that as a green light. I wondered why there were no alarms in the house, given that the outside was like a prison. But I shook the thought out. Excitement coursed through my veins. I floated down as quietly as I could. 

I landed without making a sound and did a little dance. I was in. So far, the inside of the house was just as ugly as the outside was. The kitchen was bright green and chipped. I turned around to go into the hallway where the piece was. 

And at the counter was sitting Beckett himself. He sat, completely frozen with an ice cream tub in his hands. The spoon that was halfway to his mouth fell from his hands. His open mouth refused to close. 

I stopped, mid step, pursing my lips.  _ Shit. _ I had two choices: run away and deny anything every happened, or kill Beckett. It was a hard decision to make as Dance, Dance, Dance was playing softly on a record in the background.

“HELP! GUARDS!” he yelled, jumping over the counter to grab a frying pan off the stove. I was still frozen in shock when he swung the pan as hard as he could on my shoulder. The pan dented in the center. He looked at the pan, then looked at me. Looked back at the pan, then at me again. He dropped the pan and ran away screaming. I had had half the mind to follow him and dent his head like the pan, but thought better of it. 

Two gnarly looking security guards came bursting into the room. I was pulled back to reality. The larger of the two came running at me with his gun in hands. Luckily I was able to block his shots until his magazine emptied. Thankfully I decided to wear my arm cuffs under my black long sleeve. 

I took out my lasso and swung it around the large guard’s wrist that was holding the gun. I tugged in the rope and he flipped onto his back. The other guard came running up to me. I attached the lasso to my hips. The Beach Boys record was still playing; Shut Down made quite the soundtrack to this fight. 

Charged at the smaller guard, swung my figure, and kicked him in the face with the weight of my entire body. As if in slow motion, his face went to the side and he hit the floor. The other guard was back up and staggering towards me. I punched his stomach so hard that he flew back and crashed into the refrigerator. 

Taking the chance, I ran towards the hallway. I encountered the glass case where the piece should have been. But it wasn’t there. My heart sank to my stomach. Then I heard a crash coming from the living room. 

Beckett stumbled over an ottoman. He was holding the piece. Anger corsed through my body like lightning. I sauntered my way over to him. Even from afar, I could see that he was shaking. He kept stumbling on his knees, too scared to stand straight again. 

I grabbed the neck of his shirt and swung him around.

“No!” he yelled with a crack in his voice. “I won’t let you have it, you-you monster!”

I quickly grabbed the wrist of the hand that was holding the small piece, and twisted it. Immediately, he screamed and let go of the clock. I quickly caught it before it hit the ground. My heart fluttered as soon as it made contact with it. Finally. 

But Beckett wasn’t done yet. He spit in my face. “ _ Bitch. _ ”

My cocked my head at his statement. I smirked. “You’re damn right.”

Still holding onto his shirt I flipped him straight into the air, flying up a little bit to create more force, and slammed him down onto the floor. It was so hard that cracks appeared on the ground around him. 

I took a step back and flew straight up, making a whole in the ceiling. Little Dance Coupe was the perfect song to end this encounter on. 

 

“How on earth did you do it, Diana?” asked Pier, an old coworker. His face was distorted from behind the glance. The feeling of satisfaction filled me. My chest puffed up as soon as Peir put the piece of the Antikythera mechanism on the display. The collection was almost complete. 

“Oh, you know. A woman has her ways,” I said, winking. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has left a comment!! You all are so kind! :) Let me know if you have any requests (on here or at brucexwayne.tumblr.com). Up next is one about our lovely Steve!


	5. The One where It Almost Happened

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know its been forever, but I did this chapter as a part of a wondertrev secret santa exchange on tumblr. This is dedicated to the lovely @jewishraypalmer!

Bruce picked up the journal from his nightstand. He could tell it used be a rich red, even through the dark splotches and frayed corners. The book itself looks old, but the writing is relatively new. At least from first entry, Bruce knows that Diana would have had to have started writing it after the fall of Superman. 

He opened the cover again. Running his fingers over Diana's name, he felt a closeness to her that he had only felt once before. She was always so closed off and reserved. It was a breath of fresh air to get to know more about her. 

His attention turned to the title. He chuckled.  _ Who even names their journals?  _ Obviously he picked up that she wrote letters to people as a means of therapy. But Themyscira? Where in the world was that?

Bruce put down the journal despite the temptation to keep reading, and opened up his laptop. “Where in the world is Themyscira?” He murdered again under his breath as he typed in the name. 

_ Themyscira, otherwise known as Paradise Island, is a lush city state of Ancient Greek mythological origin. The Island is the home of the Amazons.  _

_ According to myth, the Greek gods created this unstoppable army composed of magical women. However, humans attacked them. Their queen, Hippolyta (daughter of Ares), and Antiop (Amred Venus), decided to seclude the Amazons to the mythical island of Themyscira.  _

_ Similar to other mythical locations, no one has ever found Themyscira. It is said to be invisible to all who seek it. If one were to find it, they will never be able to do so twice. Supposedly, the island moves itself so that predators may never return. Still, many scientists are in pursuit of the mythical island. _

The familiar tick of a new case sparked through Bruce. He knew that he won’t be able to get this new mystery out of his mind. He will find Themyscira. He had to, for Diana’s sake.

  
  


_ Dear Etta.  _

_ I remember you once asking whether or not Steve and I ever got. . . Personal.  _

_ I remember it so vividly, as if I will one day wake up in Veld with Steve right next to me. It was a snowy night. Excitement, love, and contentedness filled the air. For the first time since I ran away from Themyscira, I felt like I could actually make it. That the outside world isn't as bad as mother made it out to be. _

_ Forever and always Steve is my rock, my purpose, and my reminder. He grounds me and humbles me while also motivating me to serve a higher purpose. Most of all, he reminds me of the true good left in the world. All that I have to protect, and all that I have to lose.  _

_ I realized all of this one night during our campaign. As you know, I come from Paradise Island. There is a sort of dome covering the island so that it has perfect weather all the time. I had never known anything other than perfect clear skies on a perfectly heated day with perfect cool breezes.  _

_ I saw snow for the first time during the celebration in Veld after the first battle. The village was so grateful to me that they decided to celebrate with a small festival. The yellow lights from the buildings shine through the night sky, music was playing, couples were dancing together. It was only natural, it seemed, that Steve and I were one of those couples dancing. I put down my beer (a weak drink, honestly), and slow danced for the first time.  _

_ Then, when I was wrapped in Steve’s arms, little flakes of whiteness began to fall from the sky. It was cold and wet and beautiful. In all my years on the most perfect island ever created, snow was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. I can still remember the way the snowflakes lightly dusted onto Steve’s honey hair. To me, snow looked light the embodiment of magic. _

_ And as you know, dear Etta, I have loved snow ever since. I remember you once making fun of me for going out into the streets of London, barefoot, and dancing around. The numbness of my feet did not bother me, nor did the strange looks from passersby. And as I make snow angels, I look at the watch on my wrist and remember that night.  _

_ Now, that night was not all snow and roses, mind you. By the next morning, I was just about ready to kill everybody. Let me explain: _

_ Steve and I went back to a room, and got very. . . personal. It was the very first time I kissed a man. Themyscira taught me that men are not needed for pleasure. But Steve’s lips taught me that I would never be the same.  _

_ I forget exactly what was said, but one thing led to another, as they say, and we ended up tangled on the bed. I have been with many people, but nothing will ever compare to Steve’s gentle touch. Even though I am a god, he treated me like as though any roughness might break me. He grabbed a handful of my hair, but never tugged on it. He nibbled on my ear, but never too sharply. It was everything I needed.  _

_ And I was more than willing to return the favor. I had seen Steve naked before, when we first met on Themyscira, but I had a great need to see him again. We had slept next to each other on the boat to England, but I had no intention of letting him sleep that night. And I knew he had the same idea. We began— _

 

Diana sighed and looked up from her journal, recounting the memory. She blushed at how close she and Steve were. The memory of the night was sacred to her, and she wanted to keep it private. She quietly closed the journal and looked out the window and relived it all. 

  
  


Steve looked into her dark brown eyes that looked like the dark earth of Themyscira. The snow that kissed her lips were soon followed by his. All the talk of life without the war introduced fantasies of a life he knew he could never have: one shared with Diana. 

The snowflakes on their hair were starting to melt away, erasing the evidence of their dance in the twin square. Velm would have been a beautiful setting if not for the war. But Steve did not care, because he knew that Diana could be in a trench and still find beauty all around her. 

Their first kiss was filled with daydreams of late nights and early mornings, playful kisses, good morning and goodnight kisses, rain kisses, holding hands in the street and actually being “together.” A thousand future scenarios played through his head as he broke away from the kiss he really not be having, but hated to end it. 

“What’s wrong?” She asked in that deep husky voice that nearly drove him to the insane asylum. 

“Nothing, nothing,” said Steve, his hands starting to shake for a different reason entirely. He took a step back. 

“Do you regret kissing me?” She asked, completely oblivious to how he really felt about her. 

“No, it’s not that,” he started. He sighed and waved his hands around, as if reaching for the right words. 

“What are you afraid of,” Diana inquired.

“You. Us. What we can’t be.”

“Steve, darling, Love is a gift, not to be feared, but to be used,” she replied with a smile. “Something to be explored and shared. Don’t you want to explore me?”

She inched closer to him with a look that could kill a weaker man. Her sultry eyes marked him as her prey, and she knew exactly what she was doing as she put her hand on his cheek.

“Keep looking at me like that and we’ll find out,” breathed back Steve, all of his cares about their doomed future gone with a touch of her lips.

Diana’s leg reached behind her and slammed the door shut, giving them some much needed privacy as Steve tentatively reached for her thigh. Diana moaned in response and deepened the kiss. This only encourages his hands to glide further up her legs. 

All of a sudden, the door burst open. 

“Is everyone okay? I heard a bang,” said a women from Velm frantically. Diana and Steve immediately broke apart. He took a step away and scratched the back of his head while Diana coughed awkwardly. The room was somehow hotter than before. 

Realization dawned on the woman’s face, along with a deep crimson blush. “Oh, excuse me then. Get back to. . .” She just vaguely gestured to them. She quickly left the room, but Steve and Diana could hear her giggling down the hall. 

He sighed and chuckled, but his thoughts where on Diana’s silky thighs and what lay between them. “Where were we?”

“I believe somewhere right. . . Here,” she guided him towards the bed and pushed him into a sitting position. Now it was his turn to cough nervously. 

She gently sat on his lap and they continued to make out. And then the door opened again. 

And again, Diana had to Immediately jump off of Steve’s lap. 

“Hey guys, all the rooms are full. Got room for one more?” Said Chief in his usual calming voice. Steve nearly snapped. 

“Well we have one bed and three people,” started Diana, blushing widely. 

“I can sleep on the floor well enough,” he chuckled. 

“You can sleep in the hall well enough,” muttered Steve under his breath. Chief looked offended, but Steve gestured to Diana, who was standing in front of him with a frustrated air. Understanding dawned of Chief’s face and he just laughed and winked. 

“I think I’ll go find another room. It’s too hot in this one anyway,” he chuckled. Steve was going to murder him. He was going to sleep with Diana, and then murder Chief. 

Diana sighed loudly and rolled her eyes after Chief closed the door. “We cannot catch a break.”

Steve only grabbed Diana’s waist in response and pinned her down on the bed under him. “No more playing, no more interruptions.”

He began kissing and nibbling along her jaw, down her neck, and to her shoulder. Her moans and giggles were like music to his ears. Sweeter, even. 

Through his kisses, Diana couldn’t hold back her yawn. 

“Getting tired already?” Steve said in a deep and gravelly voice. 

She just giggled and yawned again, replying, “Not even close.”

Diana wrapped her legs around his back and started moving against him. Running her fingers through his hair, she focused on kissing his neck. That nearly did Steve in, and they hadn’t even started yet.

And then someone knocked on the door. They both groaned in frustration. 

“Just ignore it,” whispered Steve.

“I can hear you,” replied a voice that was obviously drunk, and distinctly Scottish. 

“Go away Charlie!” Yelled Steve. He knew that Charlie would probably not even remember the encounter. 

“But I got to tell ya somethin,” he sloshed, followed by a hiccup. 

Diana sighed and yawned at the same time and gently pushed Steve off of her. She had a sweet spot for Charlie, so she was making him answer the door. 

Steve sighed again in frustration and opened the door slightly. 

“What is it?” He barked, only to find the Charlie wasn’t there. He looked down to find him slumped against the wall, passed out with a bottle still in his hand. 

Steve groaned and closed the door. He turned around to see Diana, fast asleep were he left her. 

He looked at her closed eyes and relaxed features lovingly. He knew that she had a full day, and needed her rest for whatever happened next. He decided to let her sleep, not matter how much he wanted to continue. 

He quietly pulled on her boots and put a blanket over her. He laid down next to her and wrapped her arms around her waist. He fell asleep smelling her hair and dreaming of their future.

 

Rays of sun illuminated the dust floating in the air. Steve opened one eye to see it was already morning. 

Forgetting where he was, he frantically searched around the room. He saw Diana still sleeping next to him and remembered what happened the night before. 

They were kissing and touching and doing other. . . Things. And people kept intruding. 

He looked at Diana to see that her armor was still all on. He sighed, realizing that they did not, in fact sleep together. “Oh, come on!”    
  


**Author's Note:**

> Testing the waters here. . . Should I continue? Leave a comment with a short story prompt you would like a chapter of!


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